


rose wine dreams

by naty_fangirl, quixotic_doodle



Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: Aesthetics, Character Death, Gen, Love Stories, Music, Smut, Violins, harry styles falls in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naty_fangirl/pseuds/naty_fangirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotic_doodle/pseuds/quixotic_doodle
Summary: He never would've thought himself to be someone who's thoughts could stray so far as they have.  The thought that an encounter so simple yet complex could resurface so many times throughout a lifetime.It can't be said that he didn't try to forget- but why would one want to?  The violin playing woman in her soft pink dress will forever hold his heart and mind prisoner in her thoughtful, hard eyes.--harry styles fanfiction I ghostwrote for @alondra010803 on Wattpad.The plot idea and characters and original characters were all hers.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. love

**Author's Note:**

> This was all ghostwritten for my best friend, @quixotic_doodle ! She came up with the plot/love story/female character/etc. She's great bros.

A woman walks towards the end of a long hallway, her long flowing dress caressing the floor in riveting light pink waves. Shadows grace her body in a solemn way, the window’s light embracing her front in soft golden lights. Her hair reaches mid-back in lovely brown waves, the tan skin of her back exposed by the fabric that covers her skin.

In her left hand she holds the neck of a beautiful violin, years of use reflecting in its worn wood. Her right hand holds the bow to her instrument, light fingers holding the end with practiced ease. Her bare feet bad slow and steady down the hallway, her young face eluding emotions in a structured way. Her eyes though, can’t seem to hide the longing in them as she stands in front of a window and simply stares.

She gazes down at the filled streets, the bustling of people speeding towards their destination a contrast to the woman’s calm countenance. The height of the building makes the sounds seem only like distant memories no longer in reach- the kind of dreams that elude you as soon as you wake.

At the end of the hallway stands a young man, unbeknownst to the young woman in her daydream daze. He watches her with open and curious green eyes, his brown hair- so much lighter than hers- falls into them making him seem boyish. He curiously steps forwards towards the compelling woman, but stops as he sees her shoulders shake in what is undoubtedly a deep breath. 

The woman’s face turns down towards the hand gently grasping the neck of her violin. Her face betrays no emotion as she steadily positions the violin on her shoulder. The hand holding the bow slowly comes up before resting a few centimetres above the strings. Her posture is the image of grace, years of practice presenting in the confident way she holds herself.

The man stands with baited breath as the anticipation starts building in the air. His hands curl in soft excitement as he steps back against the wall at the other end of the hallway. He works in making his presence as small as possible, not wanting to ruin the melancholy scene right in front of his eyes. The woman’s shoulders raise again, staying up in a steadying breath before touching the bow to the violin.

The notes that flow are sad in a way that’s indescribable. Her fingers move across the strings in a clearly practiced way, the first signs of emotion projecting from her guarded presence. Her perfect posture relaxes as the music grows in intensity, her body swaying in place with the music. Her eyes stay glued to the window in front of her. Golden wisps of sunlight making the scene resemble something out of an old romantic painting. 

A few minutes of pure raw emotion pass unknowingly between the young man and the woman oblivious to his awed presence. He can’t seem to control his body as he jerks in an aborted attempt to get closer to the beautiful woman. 

The music comes to an abrupt stop as the woman’s head turns to stare directly into the man’s eyes. Her own eyes harden as she stares gravely into his openly curious eyes. The stare lasts for a long time, longer than would be thought possible. The man grasps for something to say desperately, knowing the moment is about to come to an end sooner rather than later.

As he opens his mouth, ready to explain or ask or something. The woman turns her body away from him and in the span of a few seconds is walking away from him. He takes steps forwards, not seemingly able to get any closer to the young woman walking away from him.

 _“Wai-wait! Please, the song was beautiful,_ ” he holds a hand outstretched towards the woman, her footsteps not slowing at all as she turns her face to the side and stares at him with the same collected expression.

“It was in a dream, once,” a strong but feminine voice carries the words towards him, her face barely shifting as her words project across the narrow hallway. Then, in the blink of an eye, she’s padding down the hallway away from him in brisk but controlled footsteps.

His furrowed brow relaxes for a split second, the woman’s voice relaxing in that way only certain people have. He utters a soft curse before walking fast towards the end of the hallway where the woman took her departure. Slightly desperate eyes look down the hallway connected to the one where she stood, seeing only luscious red burgundy carpets and soft yellow lights- the woman nowhere to be seen. 

He stands there for what feels like an eternity, emotions curling in his chest only to reveal disappointment. His busy mind seemingly unable to wrap around the idea that he’ll most likely never see the woman covered in a light pink dress, or hear her beautifully composed music ever again. He stares despondently back to the opposite end where he previously stood and curses his inability to stay still. Now, the possibility of ever hearing the ending of the beautiful piece seems impossible. The abrupt end to her music opening a void inside his chest which seemed to only become larger with despair.

He turns his gaze back towards the window the woman was staring out of. He notices the busy streets down at the bottom, pedestrian’s faces indiscernible from the hotel’s sixth floor. He looks at the vines curling around the edges of the window, green and soft, not unlike the emotions felt during the woman’s song.

—

The walk back to his hotel room seems to take forever. His mind swirling over possibilities and forged realities where the woman simply stays. A small smile full of amusement makes his lips quirk up as he opens his door and immediately takes to the small fridge. He pulls out a bottle of wine, slowly pouring himself a glass as phrases and chords flow through his mind in a surge of inspiration unable to be allowed to die.

He picks up his glass of wine and makes his way to the hotel bed where he lays down after pulling a black nondescript notebook out of his traveling bag. He pulls out a pen out of the margin and presses it against a blank page. Words allude him even as inspiration swells inside him.

A few minutes pass like that, and his eyes close as he bring back the memory of the woman. He imagines her in her elegant organza dress, the back exposed to the world along with her strong shoulders. The utter beauty she held as her tanned skin seemed to glow from within against the golden light of the sun. 

Without much more thought he realizes that small details are slipping away. The image is not as clear as it was a mere few seconds ago and that brings so much despair to the front of his mind that his body curls in pain from it.

He rapidly opens his eyes again and starts scribbling inside his notebook. Words spilling out as hazy eyes try to conjure the image right in front of them.

_…_  
_The strength of those eyes staring into mine_  
_The mouth with which you said,_  
_“It was in a dream, once.”_

Long verses spill into the notebook, page after page filled with thoughts of the beautiful young woman that had saturated in his mind ever since he saw her no more than an hour ago.

_…_  
_Your eyes fell along the skyline far away_  
_Staring longingly into your own mind_  
_People running frantic_  
_below your careful watch_  
_Calmness radiating from the_  
_very presence_  
_that now marks my way._

  
The next few days are spent in a blur as he writes more and more about the mysterious woman that so much resembled royalty in that very moment. He keeps remembering the strong and confident way in which her hands moved whilst playing the violin. Her movements so easy and confident, made to seem effortless in what is clearly a very difficult thing.

The song still hasn’t left his mind, even if the image of the woman blurs more and more as the time passes. He can never forget her dark brown eyes though. The way in which she looked at him staying with him even at night in his dreams.

_…_  
_You’ve been in my dreams for a while now_  
_Please just tell me who you are_  
_You’re not out of my dreams-_  
_Not once_

Months pass and life goes on. He keeps growing with the world and things change- except the image of the woman that has been with him since that fateful day in that stretch hotel hallway. He finishes the song, chords coming to him easier that he would’ve thought possible. The notes in the beautiful song the woman played echoing in his mind every time he played it.

—

  
There isn’t a factual way in which to describe the success the song had around the world. In a way, the song touched many hearts and that made it all feel like much more of a success. The single broke records in the market and it trended for months. The woman never turned up, and nobody ever said they were the woman in the song- all thought to be made up by the world. He decided early on not giving any indication otherwise, the memory close to his chest in a way that feels private. Sharing it feels like the kind of invasion that makes everything in your physical body feel wrong.

_“Harry Styles new single release: rose wine dreams”_

He goes to interviews where they ask. They ask whether the song is from a special someone, he denies it. They ask whether the song is from a memory and, “of course, they always are.”


	2. desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut warning ig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> co-written with @quixotic_doodle, but mostly i just ghostwrote it for her!!

The surge of emotions whenever the woman appears in his mind isn’t something simple that he can elucidate. The memory of her face has mostly burred out, but the eyes never seem to fade no matter how long he goes without conjuring the memory. Her long pink dress held such an aristocratic air about it, like a regal queen having a taste of freedom with exposed flesh enticing those around her. Her firm grasp on the bow creating such pretty sounds, sad in an open way. There was no room for doubt on the emotions felt by the composer. 

Years passed, many other memorable moments filling up space inside his life span. Memories of laughter and moments of sadness all held important moments in his life that can never even begin to be replaced. The woman, however, her memory has been tattooed permanently onto his brain. 

The woman’s memory has turned into something not easy to describe- not quite love but also not close enough to obsession. He has agonized over the woman and her elusive figure. Through the amount of research it took him, he ended up finding the song the woman played that afternoon. ' _Vitali: Chaconne in G Minor'_ has been playing on his speakers for years now. The sad piano and violin accompaniment sounding like a waterfall of feelings so deep that anyone would just drown in it.

The song about the woman is still loved by the crowds, their voices screaming the lyrics along with the melody, the chords so reminiscent of the beautiful piece the woman played.

The repeating line, “it was in a dream, once”, feeling like a fist twisting his insides more and more as the fear of forgetting the woman’s voice increases with every long day, month, _year_ that passes.

He has never been able to find the woman again, no social media he finds has ever shown her face. No matter how many times he searches for performances of that beautiful song he can’t seem to find her. He wishes he’d asked for her name instead of stating the obvious about the song, sad little “what-if” thoughts projecting in his mind, reiterating his stupidity at that moment.

  
—

Sometimes feelings become too much inside his head. Strong shoulders tense in a way that would take the heaviest hammer just to loosen. Those are the moments where he lays down on his bed, clothes the last thing on his mind as his hand travels down. His right hand travels further down before stopping slightly over the trail of hair just under his belly button.

His hand drags slowly up and down as goosebumps raise on his heating flesh. His member starts to rise as his hand keeps going down and _down_ , reaching his shaft before trapping it in a light fist. He lightly jerked it a bit, his hand moving up and down in a lazy motion, breaths coming light and easy to him.

His thumb presses lightly over his slit, before a sharp spike of pleasure shoots to his stomach and a whine leaves his lips. Usually, while he does things like this, his imagination fills with previous encounters, or simply fantasies his mind conjures on a whim. Today, a light pink dress covering tanned skin appears in his mind’s eyes, his hand tightening around the base of his member as a response.

The long slender arms, strong shoulders turning into a strong back, tanned like the rest of her lithe body. His hand moves faster on his member, hips bucking up to meet his hand as the image of her eyes simply burns inside of him. Moans fill the air as his mind is filled with thoughts about the woman. How would she feel under him, her strong voice filling his room not unlike his own is doing right now? How would her eyes look- her face showing emotion for once, _flustered as he ravished her body-_

His member twitches and he comes with a sharp cry, cum covering his hand and parts of his stomach. He lays there panting, wide green eyes staring up at the ceiling hazily as his mind tries to catch up with _what_ exactly just happened.

Minutes later, when he’s finally able to take normal breaths and think over the situation. He admits that yeah, love and obsession might be somewhat at play here.

—

The next few weeks after the incident are filled with a lot of effort put into finding the woman. He searches every music blog he finds. Looks through violin channels and classical music performances like a mad man. Every time he finds and orchestra he pauses the image, looking for that spark of recognition at the long-ago forgotten face. He searches for solo performances of his muse’s song again and again, every time coming up empty and more disappointed than before.

Thoughts about posting something to gain the woman’s attention plagues his mind, but there’s not much more he can do if he already made a song and there’s still no signals that the woman is there. There isn’t any sign that the woman was real. Maybe he dreamed of her or imagined the whole thing- but that can’t be true. He remembers the feeling of the wall behind him as the beautiful sounds assaulted his senses in every direction. He remembers her eyes so clear staring deep into his own. He remembers the way she stared out the window like every answer in the world could be found if one looked long enough. Her words, still clear as day, “it was in a dream, once”, not something he could easily forget even if his mind tried its best.

His mind conjured up situations in which the woman stayed and they talked. Talked about what she meant when she said the song was in a dream. They talked about their days, things they liked, got to know each other- _more._ He imagined them having a life together, mornings full of love as they held each other under the sun. The beautiful rays of sun that enveloped her figure that first time he saw her, those same rays enhancing her beauty always. Them being together, her beauty increasing every time he looked at her because he just lover her so.

He sat on his bed, staring blankly out his home window, mind trapped in endless scenarios where the the woman was his and he was hers and they were one together. He wanted her to be close and play her instrument every day, certain that any song she played would be perfect because it was _her_. It was a compelling thought.

He’d made the decision a long time ago, but it popped up to his brain again. _I will not go to rest until I see her one last time._ As the sounds of her melancholy song echoed in his mind, and her body clad in her beautiful dress became again the focus of his thoughts as if it ever hadn’t been. He drifted off to sleep, dreams filled with the color pink and shadows cast against a dark burgundy carpet in a vary familiar shape.


	3. melancholy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> co-written with @quixotic_doodle ! She came up with the plot/female characters/etc.

  
He forgets. 

Sometimes, in the mornings, he wakes up wrapped in a body with lights coming through the curtains and warming the scene. He thinks it somewhat resembles a memory- but he lets it go.

Mornings come and go with little change, the busy lifestyle he had cultivated himself in his early twenties mellowing down with the years. He always feels drawn to the color pink, wines and flowers alike calling his undivided attention. 

One night, while everything is calm and serene, an image of tranquility as he lays in his bed, asleep. His body turns as his mind starts sensing that looming cloud of disquiet that comes along with an elegantly worn pink dress. The image resurfaces like a wave gone too far off shore. In his mind everything quiets as familiar notes pierce what feels like every pore in his body. The tanned arms of the woman moving with practiced ease as the song bores into the air around them. 

He stands near the woman, her body turned towards him and the strength her eyes alone shone with was enough to keep him glued silently in his spot, watching. Behind her, beautiful burgundy curtains make the lightness of her dress stand out in a way that should be unimaginable. Soft green vines curl around the soft yellow pillars around her on the stage, reaching so high into the sky that no mortal could ever see the end. 

The image looks _ethereal_. She is strong in a way befitting her presence, making her seem untouchable. He’s softly reminded of images where angels sing from the heavens while their subjects crawl underneath asking for an ounce of their purity and he _understands_. Everything in those paintings suddenly makes sense as he sets his gaze upon the only other presence inside the room.

Her eyes slowly turn towards him, staring not unlike she had when they met so long ago. The song muffles around them even as she keeps playing. He distinctly realizes that the song stopped where she had that day, even though he’s heard the complete piece by now. A quirk of his own lips reminds him that there is no way any recording out there would ever come even close to a fraction of how beautiful hers sounds.

Their eyes connect and they both stay where they are, his body feels frozen in place by a weight he can’t decipher. She doesn’t seem to be weighed down though, her figure swaying along to the no longer clear music filling the emptiness in the room. 

The wind picks up inside the room, its source unknown much like everything else that resides inside. The leaves and curtains rustle, her dress is picked up by the wind slightly as her song comes to an end and she gently lowers her violin. 

Her dark brown hair curls around her face and a small hand reaches up to tuck it away behind her ear.

They keep standing, now no sound other than the wind dying down. He feels his own eyes widen as the corners of her mouth raise up in the most striking smile he has ever seen. 

Right at that moment, the curtain raises up with a violent gust of wind and swallows her up. He feels the air getting thin and he runs forwards, the weights holding him down getting heavier with every step. Once he gets to the stage where she stood, vines curl around his feel and he kneels. Tears leave his eyes as the realization crashes into him that he let her go, _again._

He wakes up with a start, silent tears falling from the corners of his eyes in gentle streams.

— 

  
A night in the bar he meets her- or, she looks deceptively similar. By now he’s in his late thirties and conquests like this are not part of his usual agenda anymore. That night, though, that night is the exception. 

He sees the woman in her short light pink dress. So similar and yet so different to the dress the goddess in his dreams wears. She has dark skin and dark brown hair. Her eyes shine when she comes near him and he smiles and offers to buy her a drink.

No more than an hour later they’re both in a too hard hotel bed with their clothes dispersed around the room where it was left in their frantic exploit. 

He reaches down towards her and gives her everything he has, no where near as what a being such as her deserves. He devours her with care, holds her trembling body as she reaches completion for the first time that night. 

Their bodies connect and he makes eye contact with her and realizes for the first time tonight how different her eyes are. 

The morning after he wakes to gentle ruffling next to him and turns to see the woman dressed at the edge of the bed putting on her black heels. She looks over to him and her eyes shine again, excitement and a flirty attitude straightening up her posture as she leans back slightly. 

“I had a great time,” she smiles and her eyes squint, light brown irises locking on his green ones. She pulls out a tiny piece of paper from her previously discarded purse and scribbles something down. 

She stands up lightly and puts the paper under his phone, she winks, _“just in case you’re ever around town again.”_

He smiles politely and she leaves. It takes him a while to get up and start the process of looking presentable. He takes a shower in the cramped hotel bathroom and gets dressed. Halfway to his own home he realizes that he never picked up the woman’s phone number from where she left it.

The empty feeling inside of him grows slightly as he opens the door to his home.

—

A couple of years later he’s sitting down on a stool in front of thousands. A microphone sits on a pole right in front of his mouth and his guitar echoes familiar chords as he starts to sing lyrics to a song so dear.

_…_   
_The strength of those eyes staring into mine_   
_The mouth with which you said,_   
_“It was in a dream, once.”_

He lets a content smile slip into his eyes as he looks down at the crowd around him singing along so readily to his lovesick lyrics. Right at the front a woman stands, her phone held tight in a fist as she held her palms to her chest and cried. 

He locked eyes with her as he took notice of her appearance. She has dark chocolate eyes and dark tanned skin. Her figure is petite and her chocolate hair ends right where her shoulders begin.

He’s not delusional- he knows the woman from that memory would be much older than the girl crying in the middle of the concert, her shoulders heaving with heavy breaths. He can see the resemblance though, and can’t help but smile at her and hold eye contact for a bit longer than he normally would. Her crying stops slightly and her eyes widen slightly as she gazes up at him with awed eyes and a slightly open mouth.

A chuckle leaves his lips and he nods slightly at her before turning his attention back to the crowd and croons. The song comes to an end and he stands up, thoughts about the woman in the pink dress slipping as the crowd cheers with an enthusiasm that he can never connect to himself.

A few months later, he’s sitting in a couch with a microphone steadily held in his hand.

“Has there ever been someone- or something- that has stayed in your mind after a concert?”

His mind comes with the image of the girl crying with her phone clutched to her chest and he smiles, “yeah-,” and he explains. Later on, a litany of comments flood the video. Many claim to be the girl he took notice of during the concert. He never pays much attention to the comments, but he hopes the girl he meant knew it was her. He isn’t a vain person but he understands that his acknowledgment may feel like something special to some people.

—

Many years later he’s much older. He’s walking down a road that has a park when he sees her. A woman, age not that much younger than his own sitting under a tree with a book on her lap and a pretty light pink dress. He stops and looks over at the woman, mind filling with elation as he realizes that he found her. He takes a few steps closer before standing right in front of her and she looks up.

Her expression is kind, if not just a bit confused, and that makes a ball of disappointment and despair swell up inside his stomach.

“Good morning, have we met before?” His tone feels rushed in a way that’s very unusual to him but he can’t bring himself to care.

The woman closes her book slightly and an apologetic smile makes its way to her face, “I’m afraid not.”

Waves of despair crash into his body and its a miracle he stays standing. He feels his smile crumble and feels embarrassment fester up inside him like a sickness. The woman is still staring at him with clear confusion albeit her smile being kind and he quickly thanks her and takes his leave. He reckons he overstayed his welcome- not really sure he ever was welcome.

He keeps walking through the streets, melodies falling from his lips in a clear reflection of what he still remembers from so many years ago. 

He thinks the woman would be like him in age by now. He feels old in a way that crushes his soul. Years ago when the first few health problems came up he still felt young, not really a kid but also not ready to _give in._ Now, though, his body hurts with too much movement, and his eyes no longer hold clear images the way they used to. It feels like too much suddenly.

The feelings inside of him are something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Piles of medications blocking out any undesirable emotion that his brain may conjure up. Embarrassingly, he feels tears sliding down his cheeks and subtly clears them away before putting his sunglasses over his eyes. The day is gloomy and not really anything special, but the cover makes him feel much safer than staying exposed would.

The paparazzi had stopped following him a while ago, much younger talents turning up almost every day and he’s okay with it. He spent so many years trapped inside a camera lens that he’d completely forgotten what it was like to be free. Nowadays he wouldn’t trade that freedom for anything ever again.

  
—

  
Not that much time passed and he’s laying down on a white bed with needles stuck all up his arms and a machine roughly beeping next to him like a constant reminder. The beeping stops being so jarring after a while and becomes a somewhat comforting background noise. People come in to his room all the time for different reasons but right now he’s alone and he feels thankful.

His eyes close and he feels his breaths coming out in slightly rougher. He knows he doesn’t have much time left despite the loved ones and medical professionals trying to convince him otherwise. They all may be the smartest in the room but these things can’t be explained.

He _knows._

Every day simple tasks become harder to complete in a way that he couldn’t remember them ever being before. Some days are better than others, but recently days have fluctuated between bad and worse- it’s his new reality.

He feels death approaching like one can smell the rain hours before the first drop reaches the ground. It’s there, just simply taking its time knowing that it will do whatever it wants because it’s _free._

He remembers many things throughout his life, all the things he managed to accomplish and feels a warmth envelop his body from the inside out. A deep sense of satisfaction fills him up and his cracked lips stretch out into a small smile. _He made it._

He still has regrets but its okay too. Many things are much more easier to accept when he’s had time to think over them for months stuck in a white bed. 

The breaths he takes are thinner and he can feel as they drag in less and less air into his lungs. His eyes slip shut as the realization that he won’t open them again after today settles not unkindly inside his chest. 

A gentle melancholic melody starts echoing inside his mind and if it weren’t for the sheer exhaustion he would’ve sat up in excitement. 

The music seems to echo louder and louder and he keeps his eyes closed trying to conjure the image of the woman that still plagued his mind after so many decades. Minutes go by and he realizes that the music still seems to be getting closer and his eyes slip open. 

A weird curl of emotion begins to swirl in his chest and he attempts to sit up before his joints creak and he _whimpers._ Laying down again with the utmost care, it almost feels impossible to keep his eyes open but he manages. Slowly, a shadow appears near his door and someone walks in. Her skin is now wrinkled with age, color fluctuating around different places. Her hair, tied up half up has more gray than brown in it. The beautiful light pink dress still looks the same, _regal and perfect._

She’s perfect. 

Her eyes lock into his, the same dark eyes capturing him like they have done for so long. He startles as he hears a familiar part come out of her instrument and he realizes that she kept playing. She didn’t stop abruptly and the sound didn’t muffle. _She’s real._

She stands like an angel right next to his deathbed and plays him a sad song. He thinks _this must be what heaven feels like._ Despite the many years spent listening to this song and waiting for this moment- he feels wholly unprepared.

Tears cloud his eyes as the song of so many dreams is played to perfection by the (muse, angel, goddess) woman standing right next to him. The song is even more enthralling than whatever he could’ve conjured up himself in his mind.

  
Tears slip out and the sound of the violin singing is the only thing that can be heard in the room. Every other sound faded into the background, its essence paling in comparison to the grandiose presence of the woman in the pink dress and her violin.

The woman’s intense eyes lock to his again as the last notes of the song echo inside the room and he looks on in awe. The woman’s previously impassive face molds itself into a smile, and it’s so beautiful that his heart swells to what feels like a million times its intended size.

She lowers her hands and leans over the bed slightly. They eye each other for a few minutes, the silence only methodically broken by the machine informing the world of his continuous presence inside.

“It was in a dream, once,” she says, her aged voice still strong despite years of it weakening, “we met each other in a dream once.”

He opens his mouth to speak but he’s not sure of what he wants to say, or if he even can. She smiles at him kindly and he feels _understood._

“You found me, and now you can rest,” her eyes never leave his as she leans away from him slightly, her posture straightening in a familiar way, “you made it.”

Tears still fall from his eyes as he looks up at her and takes her in. She’s still as beautiful as ever, ethereal in ways that a human shouldn’t be but she _is_. He smiles widely and feels his eyes squint slightly and darkness begins to creep around the edges.

He feels something hold onto his hand and squeeze slightly. He squeezes back, the last thing registered in his mind before his body went limp one last time, the image of the woman forever burned into his eyes.

_The end._


End file.
